agoodyarn | for frightening: Goddammit Bruce

for frightening: Goddammit Bruce

[continued from here and here]

Clark knew Bruce.

He knew that Bruce was, first and foremost, married to his work. He knew that the man was driven to a point just past healthy. By, you know, a few miles. He knew that Bruce could get focused, and that Bruce was not the sort to put down a mystery just because it seemed impossible to solve.

That said, after a week of hearing nothing out of Gotham (despite more than a couple calls, texts, and emails), Clark's very extensive understanding and patience regarding Bruce's behavior had quite firmly given up the ghost. That was why he was flying into the cave sans invitation (or even pseudo invitation) and looking around to see where--

Aha.

Asleep at the console. At 3pm in the afternoon.

Well, there was the sweet way to do this, which involved kisses and light touches, which was very much not in the cards at the moment. Then there was the slightly dickish way to wake him up, which would require a bullhorn or other loud noise making device; too much work. He could always go for polite, which would just involve a tap to the shoulder. Nope, they were past polite.

Which was why Bruce was summarily put over his shoulder as he started making his way upstairs.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

An engaged Bruce is a damn engaging Bruce and Clark is leaning up into that hand, groaning desperately around him because damn if this isn't incredibly hot and his significantly less expensive pants are feeling a little tight for him as well.

It's a jolt of pleasure almost as good as the vibrations Clark is making to feel him pushing against his hands, to fully realize how much Clark likes his rough handling. Bruce watches, almost dizzy with it-- doesn't try to hold out for an over-long time, it feels too damn good. And, you know, Bruce's stamina is impressive but not inhuman. Doing quite well for round 2, all things considered.

"Incredible," he says in Kal's tongue, voice a harsh whisper, and warns him as he feels himself against the edge.

One of the best parts of this is how much he can feel with Bruce in his mouth, how responsive he is; every twitch and pulse and shift there telling him everything he needs to know. Bruce's words fall over him to give all of that context and it makes him feel simultaneously warm at the center of his chest and sends a shiver of lust through him.

That is when he finally swallows Bruce down, his lips pressing around the base like a kiss, Clark's throat already working around him as the powerful and extremely well-trained muscles that had been put to such uses as 'super-ventriloquy' and shouting across a battlefield were now quite happily serving to stroke Bruce's cock within that tight heat.

His eyes are open, focused up, because he needs to see this. Needs to see Bruce lose himself. It's too gorgeous to miss.

It hits him hard and so intense, some part of him cracking amazingly under such focused pressure. He gasps "Clark" and his knuckles are near-white in his hair; whatever control Bruce normally has, he's given himself permission to let go of it in these few minutes. Something he's never done with anyone else-- can't do with anyone else.

His grip relaxes as he floats through the aftershocks, gaze unfocused but directed down at Clark. What an intoxicating feeling, the impossible intersection of brain chemistry being reset to clarity and being reeling at the same time.

God, Clark is so beautiful.

Clark is not at all disappointed. Just hearing his name like that-- damn.

He swallows, as much from a desire for minimal fuss as because he wants to know exactly what Bruce tastes like. Unique, and Clark wonders if it's the man or the diet required by his activities that does that.

He works him down slow and careful, both hands focused on stabilizing Bruce as he does his best not to overstimulate. He makes sure not to let the vacuum build up before he lets Bruce slip out from between his lips (that awkward 'pop' is not at all appealing to him) and his movements are gentle, delicate, as he fixes Bruce's underwear and then his pants.

Even after he's done, Clark stays on his knees, smiling up at Bruce, and he can't help it. He's more than a little smug.

"Thank you."

Bruce's blinking is a little owlish as he breathes deep, orienting himself, and he lets out a little grunt as Clark redresses him. At 'thank you', he gives him an incredulous half-glower, though the effect is somewhat ruined by the way his skin is still flushed, eyes still over-bright.

He slides his hands to the sides of Clark's face, urging gently. "Come here."

Ruined? Anything but. Sometimes he lives for those incredulous looks. Especially the glowers. Maybe they wouldn't drive each other insane so often if it wasn't so much damn fun. All the same, he goes where he's tugged, standing smoothly and getting his arms around Bruce as he does.

"Yes?"

Bruce lets Clark hold him, resting his hands easily on the other man's shoulders. He gives him a look that's his usual dour expression-- kind of. It's difficult (impossible, really) to hide the strong current of satisfaction and appreciation underneath.

He kisses him, deep and a little boneless, tasting both of them, answering without words.

After a long moment, murmured: "I don't know how to do that." --Not an apology or anything that sounds like an excuse, but simple statement of a fact. He almost sounds annoyed. (Do we remember how easy it is for Bruce to see something as a challenge?)

Clark's happy to lose himself in the kiss for a moment, drawing back when Bruce does. The comment gets a smile out of him and he tucks in again for a little nuzzle against Bruce's temple.

"I'm sure if you put your mind to it--" does he even need to finish? No, he'd end up sounding entirely too smug. Better to leave it there. The encouragement was what it was. If Bruce Wayne wants to learn how to give a blowjob, Clark's definitely not the person to tell him no.

"I'm glad you don't mind me doing it. I happen to enjoy it."

And he actually isn't being smug or sarcastic. Some people have hangups, after all. And Clark really does enjoy doing it. Especially for Bruce. Getting him to lose control... definitely a rush and Clark won't deny that for a moment. He's still hard, but pretty content not to worry about it. The emotional payoff had been good enough.

An eyebrow goes up at that, unseen if they're close enough to count as cuddling, though the particular flavor of Bruce's silence (they are many and varied) suggests it. Again he considers asking but-- then decides, no, he doesn't care that much, at least right now. He's not a fan of absent parties being the focus when he's the one having sex.

Instead, "I noticed." Bruce noses against Clark's cheek, then kisses his cheekbone, not sweet but something else, moving his mouth to his earlobe, employing teeth. "You've thought about doing it before."

Not a question but there is something leading in his tone. One hand moves, low, so Bruce can press his knuckles gently against the front of Clark's trousers, along the seam and the hard length beneath. Not nearly enough pressure to be properly gratifying. On purpose, of course, not him being timid.

'Timid' is up there with 'absentminded' for things that Bruce Wayne clearly never is ever and he can hear the leading, the plan in that tone. He can't help that he twitches to the touch, a soft intake of breath the only other acknowledgment of what Bruce was doing as he tries to see where this might be leading. It's going to be good. That he's sure of. But patience is only occasionally his strong suit.

"I have," he says with a minimum of shyness. "More than a few times."

Bruce holds his position and places slow kisses against Clark's ear, his jaw. His hand strokes up, down, though he doesn't increase pressure even a bit. Drinking in those little reactions, still pleasantly buzzed off his own orgasm.

"I think you should tell me about what you imagined," he murmurs against him. "In fact..." Bruce uses the hand on Clark's shoulder to push him back, the distance created allowing him to meet the other man's eyes, his gaze intent. "..I think you had better." Bruce walks him to the bed, until the back of Clark's legs hit it. "So that I have guidance while I work this out."

Everything feels good, but there's also just the fact that he's the focus of Bruce's attention which, yes, feels really good all it's own. When his knees hit the back of the bed, he lets himself drop back, hands relaxed at his sides, eyes focused on Bruce.

"Sometimes it's soft, slow," Clark explains at an even pace, not moving to remove anything. He's pretty sure Bruce wants to have total control of this process and he's happy to give it to him. "I spend a while running my hand or my mouth over the sensitized places on your skin, the waistline and the hips, inner thighs. Get to feel your reaction to it, breath it in, let it fill my ears."

He breathes out with a sigh.

"I was planning on doing that but you got me too excited. And there's plenty of times where I think of it as fast and hard. Your hand in my hair, tight, while you" and yes, he blushes a little, even here, not from the act but the language the giant hypocrite "while you fuck my mouth. Truth is, there's no... one way about it. It's as much about you as it is what we're doing."

He grinned a little as he peered up at Bruce, his chest moving heavily from the effect this was all having on him and his eyes just a little glassy.

"More details?"

Bruce follows him after a moment, one knee between Clark's legs, prowling over him. He pushes the Kryptonian's shirt up, sliding his hands over defined muscles, taking his time. Watching.

"Yes." His voice is dark, warm, with a quicksand quality to it - drawing him in. "Those are very broad scenarios." Clark's shirt is peeled away, Bruce's hands on him sure and steady. He traces every shape, every plane, drags his blunt nails lightly - he knows Clark can feel it so much more than anyone else, so he goes slow, soft, precise. Coaxing him to focus the whole of his reality down to this room, this bed, being beneath his hands.

He knows what Bruce is doing... and he's a very odd combination of turned on and anxious. Because he wants, more than anything, to let himself do that. Focus down everything to this room, to the hands on him, to Bruce. But he's so used to listening. So terrified of not listening. His mind is so good at reminding him of everything that could happen, at working out a hundred scenarios in the space of a few seconds on how everything could go wrong if he's not paying attention.

But this is Bruce. He's with Bruce and Bruce deserves his full attention. He's with Bruce and he's safe and there's a whole Justice League out there, someone up at the Watchtower on duty, watching out for the world. He can make the world small, really he can. He can boil the world down to himself and Bruce Wayne.

It seemed like it was that small often enough anyway.

That's why he lets himself sink into the bed with a shaky breath out, shuddering like a horse let run too long, tremors slowly fading in the muscles under Bruce's hands as he directs his focus, his full focus, on Bruce. When he speaks, his voice is softer, less sure, more open. Perhaps more open than Bruce has ever heard from him as he looks up and all of that focus is there, on him.

"I want-" he takes a deeper breath, "I want you to explore. I want you to experiment. I want... whatever wild ideas come into your head, I want you to do it. Right then and there, if you can. I want to feel what I inspire in you."

Because Bruce saw him. Bruce understood him. It wasn't a test or even a game. There was just nothing as hot, nothing that effected him as much, as that singular fact. He didn't want his fantasy version of Bruce, no matter how close it might be. He had the real one now. He wanted the real one and whatever he came up with.

It's the reaction Bruce is looking for - but didn't expect to get so soon. He knows Clark trusts him, but the way he immediately lets go speaks to how quickly he put away second thoughts. It's a little foolish, honestly, but Bruce isn't going to reprimand him since he was trying. Maybe it was a strategic move to text Diana after all; she's got to know they'll be indisposed for some time yet.

He didn't think... god. Clark finds new ways to amaze him with every turn.

"Feel me, then." His voice is low, that same warm undertow. "Don't feel anything but me."

Bruce has such a weight and magnetism to his presence. He knows it, cultivated it, can manipulate it - he keeps Clark pinned with that and not his hands, knowing he'll stay where he's directed without Bruce so much as pressing down. He continues his detailed mapping, from throat to chest, shoulders to hands, not moving any lower than his navel for a span of time that seems suspended, stretching on for longer than it actually is. His heart rate is slightly above normal, but steady. Almost hypnotic. When he finally sits up, it's only to undo Clark's pants - he keeps one hand on Clark's knee as he moves back to pull his shoes and socks off. One by one, and his rough-textured hands move over each bare foot, along his ankles.

It would be a little foolish... with anyone but him. And that is why Clark has never done this with anyone, at any time, other than right now.

This is what he's felt for years in their partnership: trust. Not just trust in Bruce's intentions, trust in his care, but trust in his competence. If Bruce said he could let go, he could trust that he could let go.

But this is-- God, he can feel atoms. He can feel forces between atoms, see things that science doesn't even know exists and right now, every ounce of that is focused on Bruce and those rough-textured hands. The heat of those hands. He can feel Bruce's bioelectric field flickering across his own, every sense opened up and focused and it's almost too much. An errant brush of Bruce's skin against his own along the side of his foot and he shakes with a low moan, every ounce of his control dedicated to not flying apart. He feels nothing else but Bruce but with such a narrow focus, he is feeling all of Bruce, down to the tiniest reverberations of the air from the beating of his heart.

And Bruce wonders why he's in love with him.

Clark's reactions are more than he anticipated, if he's honest with himself, and it does interesting things to an abstract emotional thing in his chest. He continues his slow and light exploration, always keeping at least one hand on the other man if he needs to move - like he does when he shifts back forward and slides his fingertips beneath the waistband of his pants and underwear, getting everything down and off him. It's not hurried. He takes his time, hands slowly covering the skin of his legs after he's bared.

Bruce is so careful with him. Not because he's afraid of being hurt - never that. Even hours earlier, with Clark holding him, inside of him, there was not so much as a flicker of anxiety, no brace against fear. He's never flinched away from Clark, even knowing all that he can do. That trust goes both ways. No, his care here is something else. It's knowing how deep he can go into sensation, knowing that if Bruce suddenly changes tactics, the stimulation overload could be torture. There's a high-wire to balance across, and Bruce has to stay on it just so.

Hands slide over his shins and calves, the inside of his knees, his thighs, his hips. Ignoring anything between them for now-- it's too soon with Clark so lost. Bruce braces over him with one hand so that he can lean down and kiss him softly on his lips, once, before pressing kisses elsewhere. Everywhere else, if he gets his way. With that same slow care.

Right now, his way is the only way stretching out in front of them.

It says something to Clark, in the part of his mind where he can think, that Bruce is inspired to gentleness. Delicacy. Tenderness. Sweetness, even, but also precision. Deliberate and decisive thoroughness. Every kiss makes his heart flutter, his chest heavy with-- something. Everything.

Somehow, the kisses all seem different. Some bring him up and some soothe him down. All of them make him shift and move, muscles relaxing and tightening in turns underneath Bruce's lips. He's never been so turned on in his life but at the same time, he can't even focus on sex.

Loved. He feels so ridiculously, endlessly loved. And knowing that's deliberate, from Bruce, just makes everything that much better.

He keeps going for what feels like ages, because of course his patience is infinite for other people, holding out for miles beyond when he'd be irritably barking to hurry things along were their positions reversed. (Almost like he's not comfortable being the focus of such openness for too long. Hah.)

Bruce tastes the juncture of shoulder and arm, the muscled ridges of his sides, his hipbones, the flat space below his navel. Settling there, one palm laid on his hip, thumb stroking rhythmically: "Kal," he says quietly. "Pay attention for a minute."

Kryptonian to appeal to the unearthly state he's in; sometimes Bruce wonders what he'd sound like speaking alongside natives. Probably terrible.

The kiss to the juncture of shoulder and arm makes him melt as do the sides, but the hips enflame. The flat space below his navel... is neither, a strange flip in his stomach rolling through him further than it ever has. But when Bruce says his name--

His eyes immediately focus, shooting towards Bruce in a way that's entirely alien, especially given the color. Right now, given what's going on, they would need to be glowing to be brighter and Kryptonian blue is already pretty otherworldly.

You have his attention, Bruce.

For a long moment Bruce simply meets his eyes, looking, alien blue against his own terran cold water. He moves, achingly slow - and god, if he hadn't just come he'd be hard as hell right now, but there are limits to even Batman's recovery time - so that Clark can see everything, know exactly what he's doing, so that nothing catches him off-guard.

His fingers slide to the base of Clark's erection, circling, not yet gripping. Giving him a moment to understand in the tide of feeling that he's going to actually be doing this now, as he set out to. He's still matching Clark's gaze when he touches his lips to his cock, a kiss just like all the others.

By all rights, he should lose it right there. He's so overloaded, so full of sensation, and there's Bruce with his kiss right there that sends a lightning storm of sensation through him on top of it. Instead, there's an intake of breath and Clark reaches out, can't not reach out, to get his hand on something. On Bruce.

He doesn't hold him, doesn't hold him back. Just squeezes carefully because words aren't possible for him right now and Bruce needs to know. He's feeling so many things and Bruce needs to know before he can focus on Bruce's fingers around his cock or the echo of all those kisses targeted to one place.

Bruce curls his other hand around Clark's at his shoulder, steady and reassuring. Bruce is content, confident - he knows Clark isn't going to hurt him or do something accidental. He won't because Bruce isn't letting him, by sheer force of will. They're on that fine line together, and Bruce isn't letting him fall.

When he finally gets his hand around him, his mouth around him, it's exploratory and slow, learning. Not timid because as correctly noted, he doesn't do timid, but pacing himself. For Clark's benefit, too. It's more of a turn on than he anticipated, and he lets himself concentrate on enjoying it as well as keeping up his quiet control.

Clark keeps utterly still, but there's no mistaking that stillness for anything less than control. Control and need.

He needs keep himself from jumping out of his own skin so he can feel Bruce's mouth on him, because he has to take in every part of this. How Bruce's lips feel against his skin, how warm his mouth is, the pace, the movements of his tongue.

His hands settle at his side, curl in the blankets, fist tight into the material and he feels the stretch of the fabric at the very edge of ripping. He'd never hurt Bruce, he knows how to handle his strength, and he knows Bruce knows he knows how to handle his strength and that keeps everything in order.

Except for that part where his mind is getting blown by the world's most carefully paced blowjob.

for frightening: Goddammit Bruce

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